


drift dark to the window

by seventhstar



Series: a covenant with a bright blazing star [7]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Katsuki Yuuri, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, M/M, Major Illness, Marriage of Convenience, Omega Victor Nikiforov, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 11:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13480995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: “Does he have any family?”The doctor does not meet Yuuri’s eyes as he asks this question; instead he continues to prod at Viktor’s neck with his fingers. He has long, bony fingers with tufts of grey hair over the knuckles. What he means by taking Viktor’s pulse for so long, Yuuri cannot imagine.“An aunt,” Yuuri says, finally, when the doctor does not to progress to any of the salient points. If Viktor has any other relatives, Yuuri does not know of them. He will write to Viktor’s aunt at once, of course, to determine if there is anyone. “Why?”“You should summon them as quickly as possible.” The doctor sighs and tucks the blankets in beneath Viktor’s chin. “I’m sorry, but he is not long for this world. I doubt he will live out the week.”[part of an ongoing series of fics, telling the story of poor and scandalous trademan's son viktor nikiforov's marriage of convenience to the reclusive lord katsuki]





	drift dark to the window

**Author's Note:**

> The story is beginning to unfold!

It takes three days for the doctor to make his appearance at Yu-topia. Three long, tortuous days, where every second is like an hour and where every soft, pained sound Viktor makes is like a red-hot poker being shoved between Yuuri’s ribs. Viktor does not awaken, even after Yuuri carries him to the master bedchamber and builds up the fire and forces down his throat nourishing broth and herbal teas.

Yuuri tries to return to work, that first evening, but he can’t focus. He spends the three days in a state of anxiety so profound he feels as if he may die from it. Viktor has not recovered in any noticeable way. Viktor’s pale face looks ghoulish against the white sheets.

Magical fever isn’t always fatal. It is more often not fatal than it is. Yuuri has read the reports from the Royal Society of Mages, and tormented himself with the knowledge that his parents died as much from chance as anything else. If Yuuri had come home for the holidays instead of going to Phichit, he might have seen them one more time before they died. If he had gone home and been there to lend his magic, they might have had the tiny portion of strength that would have made the difference between life and death.

(Or maybe Yuuri spared himself the horror of watching them die. He doesn’t know what is worse.)

“You’re late,” Yuuri snaps as the doctor finally enters the bedchamber.

The doctor, all in black and with a severe expression, only nods. He sets his case on the nightstand and puts on a pair of spectacles before bending over to examine Viktor.

Yuuri has little knowledge of medicine, and so watching the doctor work yields little. The doctor checks Viktor’s spotted eyelids, his hands, his forehead. He presses down on Viktor’s belly and his chest; Viktor does not stir.

“Does he have any family?”

The doctor does not meet Yuuri’s eyes as he asks this question; instead he continues to prod at Viktor’s neck with his fingers. He has long, bony fingers with tufts of grey hair over the knuckles. What he means by taking Viktor’s pulse for so long, Yuuri cannot imagine.

“An aunt,” Yuuri says, finally, when the doctor does not to progress to any of the salient points. If Viktor has any other relatives, Yuuri does not know of them. He will write to Viktor’s aunt at once, of course, to determine if there is anyone. “Why?”

“You should summon them as quickly as possible.” The doctor sighs and tucks the blankets in beneath Viktor’s chin. “I’m sorry, but he is not long for this world. I doubt he will live out the week.”

“But he can’t die,” Yuuri says stupidly. “He’s only been ill three days!”

But that is untrue, Yuuri realizes, he didn’t see Viktor for days beforehand. He could well have been ill that entire time, and concealing it.

“Is he strong? Magically, I mean. Perhaps he had a sire or grandsire who was a mage.”

“He is very strong, yes, but—”

“This persistent sleep is the third stage of the disease. The average patient can take weeks to reach it, perhaps months if they are not in the habit of doing magic everyday. For him to have already reached this point…” The doctor shakes his head. “Did he exert himself recently?”

Yuuri remembers Viktor’s array of lightning and nods.

“That may well be the cause. His body is trying to restore the magic he used, and it feeds the disease quickly.”

“There must be something that can be done for him.”

“Keep him warm and comfortable. If he wakes, you can feed him broth and water; it may keep him alive longer.”

“There must be something,” Yuuri croaks.

“I’m sorry.” The doctor lays one of his gnarled hands on Yuuri’s shoulders. “It must be a great blow to you, to lose him so soon. But he is not in any pain. Spend what time you have left with him wisely.”

* * *

Viktor’s aunt, Lady Elena, never returns any of Yuuri’s increasingly frantic letters.

There is no one else to write to, no other business for Yuuri to manage on Viktor’s account: he has sent few letters. The management of the estate, the running of the house, the investments in town, all of it piles up on Yuuri’s desk like a papery monster come to devour.

Yuuri does not attend to any of it.

He focuses on the only thing that matters: Viktor remaining alive.

The primary treatment for magical fever is warmth and rich food. So Yuuri makes Viktor’s room sweltering, the fire charmed high, so warm none of the servants will venture in for longer than a few moments. A bowl of water with a pile of fresh clothes is always on the nightstand, so that Viktor’s brow and neck are sponged for his comfort. The cook has orders to make broth, fresh every day, from the best cuts of meat Yuuri can afford.

When these treatments produce no positive effect, Yuuri turns to the realm of hearsay and village apothecaries. Every possible treatment, whether it be a promising suggestion by a respected physician or an herbal remedy sold by a quack, finds its way to the manor. He piles medical texts atop his desk, over the papers from his man of business and his banker, reading them cover to cover.

Poultices of moldy bread and honey, infusions of dandelions and lavender, cloudy oils shipped from town in paper-wrapped bottles. Plasters made fresh every day, on stretch leather dried on racks before the fire in the kitchen. Yuuri draws the line at bleeding and leeches, but everything else is fair game.

With so many extra tasks to be done, Yuuri finds himself cobbling together spell networks to take on the work left undone—and with no time or money to devote to hiring a mage, he merely fuels each subsequent spell with his own. It is exhausting work, painful work, but nothing less than he deserves.

Viktor does not die within the week, or the second week, or the third, and a month after his initial collapse he remains among the living. But his condition does not improve. He is corpse still, white as the belly of a dead fish, his flesh eaten up by the fever.

Yuuri pays no mind to the way his clothes are all quickly drenched with sweat, or to his own meals. When he eats, it is the same broth, with only whatever crusts of bread are available. He quickly becomes unrecognizable—disheveled, hair mussed, spectacles stained with frustrated tears.

It occurs to Yuuri to write to Minako, or Mari, but he cannot see what they can do that is not already being done. He cannot ask them to return here to do what must fall to Yuuri and Yuuri alone.

(Besides, if they tell him it is fruitless, how will he bear it?)

And so he sinks into a routine. Wake up, after what fitful hours of sleep he can manage, curled up on the bed beside Viktor. Check to be sure Viktor is still alive. Feed Viktor as much broth as he’ll take, a tedious and messy task. Apply a fresh poultice. Refresh the room. Change the bedding. Feed Viktor another bowl of broth. Spend two hours as his desk accomplishing very little. Bring up a plaster from the kitchen. Spend another hour at his desk reviewing whatever medically relevant correspondence there is. Forgo dinner to feed Viktor a teaspoon each of the medicines he has collected. Realize that his breakfast has long gone cold and force himself to eat it, choking on every icy spoonful. Lie awake, attuned to the sound of Viktor’s breathing like a child in the dark listening for monsters, until exhaustion overcomes him.

If Yuuri had devoted one tenth of the energy he devotes to keeping Viktor alive to resolving their conflicts before he storm—Viktor might—

* * *

The nights are the worst.

During the day, Yuuri has the semblance of business to attend to. He can sit at the desk he’s dragged into the bedchamber, and pick at the leftovers dregs of broth and bread, and pretend to be attending. There is correspondence to sort through. There are tasks to complete. There are distractions from the pitying looks the doctor, when he deigns to appear, gives Yuuri.

But once the sun sets, Yuuri is trapped. A wind charm draws the smoke from the ever-roaring fire up the chimney, but Yuuri doesn’t dare risk Viktor’s lungs on even the smoke a single candle gives off for longer than necessary. The windows must be kept shut to keep the heat in. In the hot, dark, room, sweat on every inch of his skin, with only Viktor hovering at death’s door for company, Yuuri wonders if he will go mad.

Even the nightmares are more pleasant than lying awake in this state, and yet, more often than not, Yuuri sleeps not a wink.

Two months have passed.

Viktor has lived five weeks more than expected, but in his condition, Yuuri can barely call him alive.

Will he ever begin to recover? Is Yuuri prolonging his agony with his constant barrage of treatments? Is this to be the totality of their marriage—the crackle of the fire, the whistle of air from Viktor’s throat, the pounding of Yuuri’s guilty heart.

 _I’ve killed him,_ Yuuri thinks, in despair.

“I thought this would be different.”

“Viktor!”

Viktor almost sounds lucid—has the fever finally broken? Yuuri snatches up the washcloth lying in the bowl and manages the freezing spell with shaking fingers. He presses the ice-studded cloth to Viktor’s forehead.

The skin still burns like all the fires of hell lie beneath it. Candlelight is caught in Viktor’s eyes as he turns his head and meets Yuuri’s gaze.

“I thought you would be different,” Viktor whispers. He stares, and Yuuri cannot bring himself to look away, or to speak, entrapped he is in this terrible moment, in Viktor’s faintly accusing tone.

Then Viktor’s eyelids flutter shut. The room returns to sickbed silence.

For one awful second, Yuuri is certain Viktor has stopped breathing.

“No! No, please.” His voice is hoarse from disuse. Yuuri flings himself onto Viktor, fumbling at his throat for a pulse, pressing his ear against Viktor’s mouth for the sound of his exhale. Viktor’s clothes are sweat-soaked, his skin waxy in the candlelight. Weeks and weeks, he’s been wasting away. The doctor has told Yuuri to order his blacks and prepare for the worst, and Yuuri has refused to listen to him. He’s not given up. “Please.”

Viktor’s breath is hot against Yuuri’s face. Yuuri groans and buries his face in the sheets beside Viktor’s limp arm.

“Thank god,” he croaks.

* * *

“My correspondence!”

Betsy, the maidservant who brings Viktor’s breakfast, stares at Yuuri for several seconds after he gives this command. Yuuri can’t blame her; he’s gone so far as to put on pressed clothes and tie his cravat, albeit poorly. He’s sitting at his desk. He’s eating an apple.

It tastes like the manna of heaven.

“Milord?”

“Bring the rest of my correspondence from the study, please. All of it.”

“Yes, milord.”

“And flowers!”

“Sir?”

“Bring some flowers—or cut me a branch of a flowering tree and I’ll charm it to bloom. With a vase. That blue one, in the dining room.” Yuuri recalls Viktor admiring that one, that first morning when they breakfasted together.

_“You care for flowers, then?”_

_“I miss them. The gardens in the city are never so fine as those in the country. And my stays in the country have not permitted much time outside the house.”_

He spoons broth into Viktor’s mouth while Betsy runs downstairs. Is it his imagination, or does Viktor swallow with more vigor than usual? By the time she returns with a towering stack of letters and the vase, filled with twigs, he has changed the sheets and is building up the fire again with the wood stacked by the hearth.

Yuuri sets the vase of twigs by Viktor’s head; he swears that a faint blush has returned to Viktor’s cheeks. He charms the branches until they shiver and green and begin to put out buds, until the vase is overflowing with tiny white blooms. Then he takes a seat at his desk and begins sorting through the letters. All the business correspondence he sets aside; all the letters from friends and family he piles up for later. What remains are a handful of missives addressed to Viktor.

Some are in Russian, and Yuuri has no hope of making them out. But others are in French, one of the languages Yuuri speaks. They are from a friend of Viktor’s, lamenting Viktor’s tardiness in responding.

As the morning wears on, and the fortitude to attend to his own correspondence hopelessly out of Yuuri’s reach, Viktor rolls over in his sleep for the first time in weeks. Yuuri moves to sit on the bed beside him as he reads; Viktor’s forehead is cool.

Yuuri finds himself humming as noon approaches. He takes out a volume of poetry he keeps in his desk and beings reading it aloud. _If Viktor lives,_ he thinks, _I’ll do anything—anything. Only let him keep getting better._

He passes three days in this state of desperate hope.

On the morning of the fourth day, Viktor wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are much appreciated! we're getting to the good bits now


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